Bear

Yesterday was my grand-niece Jillian’s first birthday. Six weeks after she was born, Mom got a visit from the whole tribe: my brother Darryl and his wife Janet; my niece Jenny and her husband Mike (I performed their marriage ceremony); my other niece, Tracy; and my other brother, Dale, and his wife Nilda. All so Mom could meet little Jillian. Jillie, as everyone calls her.

Mom was already starting to fade by this time last year. Dale and Nilda had tried to visit every other week, but sometimes Mom didn’t feel up to letting them come, and when they did visit, often she felt she needed to “tune out.” I think family visits just overwhelmed her.

The day everyone brought Jillie to see her great-grandma, Mom wasn’t feeling at all well, but she wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by. I think she had willed herself to hold on until after she met this precious gift of a child. Everyone crowded into Mom’s bedroom, and we all oohed and cooed and made baby noises, and then Mom got to hold her:

I recently found some photos I snuck of Mom three and a half months later, about two weeks before her death. I was shocked to see how bad she looked—exhausted, face lined, ill. I just didn’t notice the change when I was with her. She held on for my birthday, and for Darrie’s, but died eleven days before her own.

One of Jillie’s birthday gifts yesterday was a bag full of Mom’s stuffed animals. Actually, they’re to be shared with Jillie’s older cousins, seven-year-old Molly and ten-year-old Hannah, the daughters of my nephew Erik and his wife Rayna (I officiated at their wedding too). Mom loved her stuffed animals. She had big ones, small ones, tiny ones; dogs, tigers, rabbits, and a moose.

Her most precious stuffed animal was Bear. When Hannah was to be born, Mom and I went shopping for a shower gift for her. We ran into a selection of stuffed animals, and one was a floppy polar bear with the softest fur imaginable. We ended up getting something else for Hannah, but I had seen that look in Mom’s eyes, and I got her the polar bear for Christmas, which fell just a few weeks later. Bear slept with Mom from that day on, and when Mom was buried, Bear accompanied her in the casket.

In many Native American cultures, the directions on the Medicine Wheel are represented by different seasons, colors, and animals. The West is represented by autumn, when the shadows are lengthening and the world is growing cold. It is where we learn the lessons that Death can teach us. Many tribes assign black or dark blue to the west, and Bear is freqently its animal symbol. Until the drive home from Jillie’s birthday party, I didn’t make the connection about Mom’s Bear being her constant companion even as she crossed from this realm to the next, nor that Mom died just past autumn’s midpoint.

I should probably mention that the idea of giving away Mom’s stuffed animals popped into my head unbidden and refused to be ignored, even after several days. If anything, it became more insistent. Somehow I don’t mind Mom nagging me these days.

The India Blue

Somewhere around 1986, when Mom was considering the move to Florida, she and I came down to look for a house. The real estate agent took us to a home painted a chocolate brown—not the prettiest shade compared to its pastel Floridian neighbors. Once inside, we found it had very low ceilings, again rather usual after the cathedral ceilings we had been touring. But the owner, an older gent, a widower, had the windows and doors open, and a lovely breeze was blowing gauzy curtains around rather romantically.

We walked out to the small deck, and were startled to hear the high-pitched and very distinctive call of a peacock. We looked up, and saw one perched in the tree overhanging the yard.

Delighted, we asked if it was his pet. He looked like he wanted to spit. “Damn nuisances,” he growled. “They’re all over this neighborhood. They crap in your yards and make the most godawful racket. I’d like to shoot ’em, but my neighbors would have my head.” As we talked, the bird flew down into his yard, and immediately put up his tail in a grand display. The man cursed again and went inside.

Mom and I were thrilled. The house was not particularly suited to our needs, but the peacock was a definite draw. As we left, we saw several others in the neighborhood, both peacocks and peahens, walking in the streets, nestled under trees, perched on rooftops.

After we moved to Florida, we made frequent visits to our favorite peacock enclave, showing it off to visiting friends as if it were a delicious secret. In fact, it wasn’t a secret at all. The neighborhood was at war with itself over the birds, according to the local newspaper. Half the residents wanted them exterminated, or at least relocated; half wanted them protected and cherished. They’ve had half-hearted relocation campaigns over the years, but they either keep coming back or the remaining birds repopulate. There’s still a thriving peacock community there today.

I happened to drive through the area today, and snapped a few shots. Here, then, are some India Blue Peafowl, Pavo cristatus, happily making pests of themselves in Palm Bay, Florida:

A Note to the Red-bellied Woodpecker Out Back

Let’s set aside, for the moment, the absurdity of your name. It’s your head that’s red; your belly only has a slight tinge of color, and it’s down low and very hard to see. Even Wikipedia calls your name “somewhat misleading.”

But that’s not your fault. This, however, is:

No matter how hard or how long you hammer at the downspout outside my bedroom window, it will never yield up the tasty insects you’re looking for.

Your drilling is giving me a headache. Move on, please.